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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794159">Blankets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutesonas/pseuds/Cutesonas'>Cutesonas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>mceu oneshots [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:48:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutesonas/pseuds/Cutesonas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>mceu oneshots [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Blankets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Today was the day. The day both boys have been planning and waiting for. The early rise and chat before off to their both equally differing lives from one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet to them it was more than just breakfast. It was bonding. Understanding, even. And most of all healing, as the photographer was still mournful over his little dance of danger with ploy. Despite the fact that he was the one to end it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shifted in his bedsheets, groaning as the sunlight from the window began to hit his face in a manner he did not enjoy. So of course, he rolled over, rubbing his eyes open. Only a couple of inches away from his alarm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>7:45 am. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.” He muttered, blinking as an attempt at a double take. He was late. So fucking late. Like, this isn’t even fashionably late type of late. Immediately jumping up from his cheap bed, not even bothering to make his bed. His eyes then turning to his dorm mates. Properly made, blankets folded, even with note.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arachnid snagged it, bringing it into the bathroom with him as he tried to brush his hair and his teeth at the same exact time like the madman he is. In the mist of the running water, and two brushes barely doing their job, Peter's senior citizen eyes finally read the writing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew you would oversleep, don’t worry, you’re not keeping me waiting long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ Mike.” He gurgled, swishing the water between the crevices of his teeth aggressively. “You are a godsend.” He shakily admits, grabbing a wad of hair gel and putting it anywhere he felt needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then spraying some cologne. Was that too much? That was too much. It’s not a date, Peter. Come on. Don’t overthink this. But it’s too fucking late, now you’re gonna smell like your uncle Ben during Friday nights with May. Ugh, gross, just focus on getting ready please and thanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter proceeded to wash his face, then speeding back to his room, peering at Micheal who has his back turned, boiling water. Good. Good. That’s great. He still has time. He closes the door, tossing his faded shirt into his bin. The mess of a man then pulls his drawers open a little too forcefully, causing the little trinkets from home and stick pile from bitsy crashing into his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“FUCK.” He yelps, trying to soothe his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a moment to himself, before straightening his posture and beginning to pick up after himself. Not noticing the creaking noise of the old bedroom door open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pete?” Micheal started. Causing Peter to jolt up from the floor. Unknowingly and stupidly showing his dorm mate who surely didn’t ask his bare chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” The medicine major blurted out, his cheeks rising in hue. Unable to get his large eyes off the faint scars scattered all over the nerds torso. “Uh-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I meant to lock the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know, uh-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no it’s uh, hot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Micheal stammered, gripping the doorknob until his knuckles were white. Pulling the collar of his shirt in increasing butterflies in his stomach. “The water, I mean. It’s hot. I mean, you...are working out. That’s....” his face continued to get red as he stared some more. Causing peter to cover at least a bit of his chest with his arms, not making it any better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. That’s great. Anyways, I was just checking if you were okay. But you seem uh-“ The glasses wearing nerd looked back at the kettle, now shrieking in announcement. “Igottagobye.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door slams, without another word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving the two to collectively agree never to mention that again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After twenty or so minutes of picking out a presentable short sleeved t-shirt and jeans, the door finally swung open again. Revealing a bored Micheal, munching on his pancakes while simultaneously listening to a podcast about the environment and sketching a bird. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was so concentrated that he didn’t even notice his roommate, still chewing on the hot pancake piece. His brown hair and eyes glowing like gold in the leaking sunlight. Yet it didn’t bother him like it would him. Peter was slowly beginning to realize that his dorm mate was in fact, a looker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was no Jacob Ploy but-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh my god. Okay okay. Stop. Stop. No Jake. No rebound. No drooling over your roommate. Don’t be that guy, Peter. Come on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Romero looked up from his detailed sketches, at his roommate. His eyes half lidded per usual. “Huh.” He huffs, pulling an earbud our. “I thought that’d take you a bit longer.” He taps a couple of buttons on his phone, and the soft audio about trees and fish are halted meanwhile Parker pulls his chair, and grabs what he assumes is his mug of coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess I’m full of surprises.” Lifting his mug to his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure are, Spiderman.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without another second, Peter begins to choke, accidentally pouring too much of the barely hot liquid into his mouth. It dribbles down his chin and into his shirt. Instantly, this causes the usually stoic and cutthroat boy to burst out in snickers and snorts at the free cable tv right in front of him. Instead of helping his viscerally dying friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, with the help of some napkins the poor parker had to provide himself, he stopped his choking and overflowing mess of coffee from reaching the floor. “Gee, thanks for the help, Mike, I sure do appreciate it!” Peter remarks in irritation, subtly trying to see if his fit got him to forget about his vigilante life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was just making fun of your tinder profile, I didn’t think you would-“ his weakened roommate then fell into another burst of giggles and amusement once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However this caused a relief in the spiders chest. “Oh.” He spills. “Yeah no, that wasn’t-“ Shit, don’t ruin this the same way you ruined your life with Ploy. Oh my god, didn’t I just say not to think about him? Way to go, Parker. “My coffee was cold?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, my fault. Sorry. I made your coffee a while ago, even before I made the pancakes for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” He adds, looking down at the pancakes steaming in front of him. “Thanks.” He beams. His eyes looked straight at the med student, who turned his head out to the window. His tired eyes returned back to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter gobbled up his sliced pieces, unconsciously gazing at the sun kissed boy in front of him. He really wasn’t anything like Ploy. Not a single bone in his body was even remotely similar to his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hair a too bright shade of brown, his skin soft unlike the rough and sterilized texture Jacobs skin was. Not to mention the eyes, tired, aloof and still. But not fridged. Not even close. There was a fire in those eyes. See, ploys eyes were different. They were constantly on the move, bright, blue, in a frenzy, but always, no matter what, icy and raw. At the only thing you were able to look at in those eyes were your own warped reflection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More minutes passes between the two, Micheal speaking in between his lazy but well done sketch of Peter and his coffee stained shirt. His voice even, was the opposite of Jakes. There was no venom, no anger or underlying intent to harm. It was just gentle. Like a song. Like a harmony. A lullaby. Something he could finally trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter spends the rest of their long and meaningless conversation falling in love with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re staring.” Mike finally comments. Looking up from his sketchbook once again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m...what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Staring. You’re staring, Peter.” Lifting his back up, instead of hunching over his book like a goblin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” He swallows the last piece of his meal, setting the fork down gently. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be. I don’t care.” He untruthfully admits. He did care, a lot. What the hell was he thinking? Why wasn’t he saying anything? Was he supposed to say something? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter's eyebrows creased, not caring could mean a lot of different things. But as of now, as a newly single man in mourning, it meant a lot more than originally entailed. He searched for anything to say, to get his dorm mate to care. Even a little. However his head was blank. Thoughts don’t start coming in until ten and it was barely even nine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, in daring actions, “it’s cold.” Peter weakly squeaks. Not lying, unlike Micheal. It was genuinely freezing in their dorm. Which he figured odd. “Did you leave a window open or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal clicks his pen, humming. “Nope. I’m not cold either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. Just be his spider bite acting up again. That’s fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a couple of blankets you can borrow, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal pushes in his now empty chair. “Yeah, of course I do.” Pulling open a plastic bin from under his bed. Peter idly following behind in interest. “what better way to say fuck you to Walmart than to make your own shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The photographer actually smiled at that. As the man placed his multiple beautiful knitted pieces on his bed. “Take as many as you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet Peter was still in awe, the colors all bright and aesthetically pleasing to the eyes. The patterns and the care put into each was so obvious he couldn’t possibly just take one. No, he ruined it!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are- are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well don’t have a meltdown about it. It’s just a blanket dude.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know but-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter. Just fuckin’ take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Okay.” He complies, impulsively grabbing the purple and navy blue one. “Thanks.” His head turning to the taller man, who somehow teleported back to the kitchen, just to wash their dishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need any help with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response, as Micheal was possibly listening to the last couple of minutes of the podcast from before. Before finally coming back to their room, placing the knitted articles back into his bin. “You gonna stand there Peter or are you gonna work on your thesis?” He comments, apathetic as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thesis.” He answers, startled back into reality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Attaboy, Peter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for a stretch, a stretch of time, of content, something was still wrong from the silent yet accompanying scene before Peter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still cold as fuck.” He whines. Staring at his word document in frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal looked at him in bewilderment. “How?” Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You have two blankets on you right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three, actually.” He corrects. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re not cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gonna tell me how I feel now, Romero?” Peter eggs on, feeling a bit amused himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I’ve been doing, yeah.” Micheal miffs, rapidly typing on his desktop, not giving into his dorm mates game so easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got a source?” He coos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a med student, Peter. And unlike you I use my brain.” He further adds on, looking closer into his monitor and squinting. Damn websites font is too fucking small. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. I use my brain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, to beat that kid Miles at online uno?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter fake gasped, like the wannabe theater kid he was born to be. “How dare you. Miles isn’t just any kid, he-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hangs out with you unfortunately.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe that’s why he keeps giving you sticks. As revenge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woah-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need I go onto your lawyers next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter put his hands up. “Okay, okay. You win. Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Extremely. Now-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still cold though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal looked at him, angered. Meanwhile Peter smirked like the idiot he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prove it.” He commands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here. I’ll prove it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Romero did as commanded, standing over the boy. Grabbing his arm, filled with rage. The fire in his eyes began to grow in mass. But-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It falls, in shock. “Why are you-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t lying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheals head whipped back and forth from the arm and the owner of said arm. Confusions but morbidly fascinates. “How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m cold blooded, baby~”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No seriously, how?” His eyes began to light up In eagerness to learn more, practically bursting with questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhhh.” His dorm mate began to panic, realizing his very limited knowledge on health. “I am...anemic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? I never knew.” His steady hands stroking and feeling every inch of his arm in fascination. “Is this your normal temperature?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No...?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sound unsure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t normally notice my body temperature, Mike.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if it is,” he began squirming the ends of his fingers, looking closely at every little detail on them. “Then you should probably talk to your doctor about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if it’s temporary?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal played with his arm some more, “well then you just need some heat, body heat, hot food, a heater even, anything will do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, basically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither said anything for what seemed like a couple of years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then move your stuff here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m cold, Micheal.” Peter's eyes never looked more sure at anything in the world, locking with the med students stunned pupils. “Anything will do. Your words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Micheal didn’t say anything, he simply unplugged his laptop and made Peter scoot over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I need more space.” He stammered, ignoring the heat from his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t move any further, Mike.” Peter nervously chuckles, realizing he was not at all thinking any of his decision making through. And now had a man in his bed, no longer wearing the fluffy hoodie from earlier, to avoid sweating as much as he already was. Trying to occupy and distract himself from the painful lack of space between two of them by typing aggressively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A half an hour passed. Of typing and peters eyelids growing heavy by the second. He tried to focus on his own work but could only manage to focus on Micheal. Only him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was to no avail, because- “you’re staring again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m starting to doubt that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah okay, I was lying.” He exhales. “I don’t really regret this, you are a pretty warm.” Peter leans in, resting his head on his shoulder. Making the opposing body freeze in utter hysteria. His fingers now immobile and impossible to do anything with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you so warm?” Peter whined, intertwining his fingers with The other, his voice growing somber. “You’re like, a heater, Micheal.” He hummed, ready to rest again in any second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well for one I eat right, unlike you.” He anxiously stutters, trying to ignore the hand that fit so well into his. “And I drink eight bottles of water each-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. Not even starting to list all one hundred and one reasons as to why, Peter found so much comfort in his voice that he fell asleep already. Still clutching his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit.” He whispered, shutting his laptop. Go focus all his remaining attention on Peter. Who looked the same yet...not at all the same while resting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at peace. But only a little. His grip on his hand was still tight, and breathing still stiff and strong. Oh god. Oh gosh he’s moving, he’s, he’s pulling him closer. Why? Why?? He’s not that special. Was he really that cold?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before his fate could be sealed, he managed to move both laptops off the bed, but in the process got both arms caught into his web. Trapped in those toned arms of his. Jesus Christ. Peter fucking Parker is snuggling him. He doesn’t know why. But- it’s happening. And he can’t escape it. Because oddly enough, his cold arms weren’t bad. They weren’t rough around the edges or painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were peters. They were...soft. Loving, caring. They were Spider-Man's arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They would never hurt him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that. Micheal shut his eyes as well.</span>
</p>
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